Sweet Sixteen
by Meridian1
Summary: Happy Birthday, Abby. A meeting of two Whistlers set before the events of "Blade."


Title: Sweet Sixteen

Author: Meridian

Rating: PG (one itty-bitty swear word)

Notes: This is a prequel to the _Blade_ movies introducing the background for the character of Abigail Whistler. Abby is the bastard daughter of Blade's vampire-hunting partner, Abraham Whistler. She was introduced in the third _Blade_ movie, but this story takes place before the first one. I've decided to use the relevant real-life dates for the characters in this story. _Blade_ was released in 1998, _Blade 2_ in 2002, _Blade: Trinity_ in 2004; the events in the movies thus take place in those years. Jessica Biel, who plays Abby, was born in 1982, so in 1998 she would have been sixteen. The only liberty I take is with Kris Kristofferson's age - he was sixty-two in 1998, which I felt was a little too old for Abraham Whistler; I envision him here as being in his late fifties.

_May 3rd, 1998_

"Hey kiddo."

He'd called her 'kiddo' since he started coming by on these irregular visits. It made her mother and Todd nervous, which she enjoyed. Her step-father especially loathed the presents that Abraham left behind though he not-so-secretly delighted in the fact that she didn't refer to her biological sire as 'Dad.' It was a trade-off.

"Hi, Abraham."

"Thought I'd stop by to see you for this one."

This one was her sixteenth birthday. Abraham had been by for others off and on, but his visits were never timed or scheduled as such. Making a yearly appointment was difficult. He made up for it by never coming empty-handed.

"Thanks." She took the box from him. It wasn't wrapped with paper or ribbon or ornament. It didn't have her name on it. It was decidedly the work of Abraham Whistler - the outside was unprepossessing, the inside was unique.

"Jesus, Abe." Her mother never cursed except when Abraham was around. Abby tipped the box up and to the side, and the silver dagger slid off the protective velvet padding and onto her palm. No handle, just metal continued beyond the marked end of the blade. Useful, that. It could be customized to slip into a pommel of her choosing or loaded into some innocuous toy, spring-loaded to snap out and kill.

"I love it."

"Knew you would, kiddo."

After the exchange of gifts, the routine went something like this: her mother would invite him to dinner, expecting him to decline; Abraham would say he couldn't, he didn't want to intrude, he had no time; Todd would say 'next time, maybe,' and guide her mother back inside; she and Abraham would talk on the stoop for an hour. He'd show her what to do with his thoughtful gift, how to use it and use it against others if need be.

This time, her mother and Todd disappeared, grim-faced and disquieted, without making any pleasantries. It stunk of preparation, and she turned from the closing front door to Abraham.

"What's this?"

"Abby, I have something to tell you."

"What?"

"No easy way to say this." He'd never been nervous before; he'd never known what not to share, possessed of an ignorance of what a girl like her could accept and understand all her life. Her mother had told him off for scaring her with his stories when she was a girl, but sixteen was _it_the upper limit for the cutoff between childhood and adulthood.

"Tell me anything."

"Your mom's worried about you, kiddo." When she did not answer, could not, he went on. "She thinks maybe I can talk to you about your plans for the next few years."

"Why?"

"She thinks you've got the wrong idea about me."

"Wrong idea," she repeated, flatly. It would be hard to have the _right_ idea about Abraham. He, everything he did, lived, believed in - all the very definition of wrong.

Abraham sighed. "She thinks you're fixing to follow in my footsteps."

There, he'd said it. She hadn't expected this. Her mother tended to be up-front about her likes and dislikes when it came to her daughter's behavior. For years, she'd taken Abraham's presence with a grain of salt, tolerant beyond measure of a man she barely knew and with whom she had a complicated, awkward history. Worse, he was certifiable, or so Todd said.

"Abigail."

She blinked and came back to herself. "Yes?"

Abraham seemed older today, as if he were celebrating yet another birthday instead of her. He rubbed his knee around the metal brace. "You can't do this, Abby."

"Yes, I can." Truthfully, she'd dreamed about it, planned for her future career as a practice in fantasy for years. She was never serious until now, now that he was telling her_ no_. Ironically, had he never said a word, she might have stayed out; not so any more, she would 'do this' just to spite him, her mother, Todd, the world at fucking large.

Abraham lit a cigarette, another of his vices she did not share though she derived an innate comfort from the tang to the smoke of his hand-rolled sticks. With effort, he pulled his lame leg across his lap and fiddled with the straps. The set-up looked complicated, the whole business uncomfortable. He was making a point she could not have missed if she were blind.

"I had a family once. A wife, two daughters..."

She knew this story, but he'd only ever told it once, swearing never to do so again. So she let him continue, not daring to interrupt.

"And a drifter came calling..."

_A vampire_, she whispered to herself, the sound only a hum in her throat.

"A vampire." He tightened the strap around his knee, pressing a thick circular pad into the groove around his kneecap while he struggled to continue the story. "He toyed with them first." Like he was doing with his little albatross; she hated his theatrics sometimes. "Tried to make me decide which order they'd die in."

He sensed he was losing her and redirected, returning to his original point in a hurry. "I've been doing this a long time, since before you born." Seriously, he sought her gaze and she met his eyes without fear or disrespect. "I don't want this life for you, Abby."

"I'm allowed to live my life however I want." It was something she'd learned, strangely enough, from her mother, _not_ from Abraham. Her mother who, despite the quiet suggestions that she put away the product of her disgraceful union with an outsider, had kept her, raised her, and told her she could do anything. If her determination was anyone's fault, it was her mother's, not Abraham's, but he didn't see that.

"You are, kiddo, sure. But I wouldn't wish this life on a dog."

"Then quit."

"Not that simple." He scratched his beard and coughed, swishing and then spitting a large wad onto the curb by his feet. It landed with a splat; it was tinged with red.

"Are you sick?"

"I'm fine," which meant 'no.'

"You shouldn't smoke those if you're sick."

"Lay off, kiddo. I'm the parent here, and I like _that_ job." And he did, but he was far too infrequent a guest in her life to merit the kind of reverence she had for her mother or even for Todd. He was a friend, an associate. A colleague, in time.

"I like your other job." The word wasn't 'glamorous,' but something close to it; his job was somewhat glamorous. It had all the intrigue of Becky Lords' Dad's, who worked for the CIA, and the soul of justice like Todd's-he was in line for sheriff when Lloyd Dobbs retired.

"I'm not making a suggestion, Abby. I'm _telling_ you. You need to stay out of this."

"No."

"Abby-"

"No." She shook her head. "I want to."

"Your mother-"

"Can't tell me what to do any more."

"That's what she was worried about, kiddo." He took a long drag and squashed the rest of his butt under a steel-toed boot while she sorted this out. So, _that's_ why he was giving her the pep talk today of all days. Because, for all intents and purposes, she was now eligible to make her own decisions about her life. True, she couldn't drive after nine for another year, get married without parental permission or vote for another two, or drink for another five. But today, she was sixteen, and she could stop going to school. Could stop learning algebra and start kicking ass full time. Just like dear old Dad.

"Promise me you'll stay in school."

"I won't make that promise." Anger twisted her gut as she clenched her birthday present. "Here," and she dumped it in his lap. "Take it back." Abraham said nothing but waited for more, and more he got. "Why give me that? Why tell me how to protect myself if you don't want me to help?"

"To keep you safe."

"I'm not a kid."

"Yes, you _are_." He sounded tired, finally worn through after all these years. Living for vengeance could do that to a person, she supposed. "Abby, you're young. I want you to have a chance to get old."

"Like you."

"No, that's the point: _not_ like me." He rubbed his forehead, pinching the papery, wrinkled skin between his snowy eyebrows. He hadn't always been so gray; each time he'd come to see her, a little more white would have replaced the color, just as the ashy pallor of illness-he was _definitely_ sick-had contaminated his formally healthy tan. He mumbled something, snorting once to himself.

"What was that?"

He peeked out under his hand at her. "I told her this wasn't going to work."

"Telling me off?"

"Yeah."

"So don't."

"Abby, please." He reached for her hand, to hold it she thought; instead, he dropped the knife back into her palm. "I know I haven't been there. I can't be there for you, for anyone any more, and that's not your fault. I like to think I've made you cautious, made you safe. That's as much as I have a right to ask of you, that you stay safe."

She clutched the blade close to her chest. "I'll be safer if you help me."

"Don't do it, kiddo. Please?"

"No promises."

Abraham stood with difficulty, winded and huffing. He was in bad shape, and he wanted to abandon the world with no successor? No way. He gazed distantly over her shoulder at the house.

"You tell your mom I tried."

"I will."

He nodded to himself, satisfied. "If you need me, you know how to get in touch with me." Actually, she didn't, but she didn't ask. If he said she knew, then she did. She might have to remember or discover the answer anew, but it was there. "We're headed out east," he said, and she knew he was leaving; he always left her with a vague notion of his next destination.

"East where?" And she always probed for more specifics.

"You know better than that, kiddo." And he never gave them to her.

"Be careful."

"We will be." _We_. Him and his partner. She dreamt of a time when he would say _'we'_ and mean her. She could be as courageous as her mother in the work of her father, blending the best of both their talents as she believed herself to be the best of both of them. For now, she wasn't part of the 'we,' and that was okay. She could be patient.

This was the shortest of his visits to date. He departed without further fanfare, hobbling along the sidewalk in a northerly direction and pausing at the corner to grimace at her. She knew that's what he was doing-he wasn't the sort to smile, and the circumstances called for a good frowning.

"Is he gone already?" Todd appeared behind the safety of the screen door, arms folded as if to ward off a chill. Abby glanced at him briefly and then back at her father. In the shortest of instants, Abraham Whistler disappeared from the end of her block.

It would be five years before she saw him again.


End file.
